The Unwillingly Blessed
by child-dragon
Summary: Even in Shattrah, the place of refuge, there are still some who simply cannot find a home. A short contemplating the state of the Scryers, traitors to their Prince and hated in the very place they sought redemption.


Daramus woke with a gasp, the visions of his nightmare shooting through his mind and the pain it had incurred shooting through his ribs almost as if it had already happened. For a moment he sat there, panting on his small bed, listening to the sounds around him. Reassuring himself of his place in the world. Shattrah was never truly quiet, not even on the Scryer's Tier, their last little haven in this world gone mad. He could hear the rhythmic steps of the arcane guardians, the occasional late-night passerby, and if he strained hard enough he swore he could hear the denizens of the Lower City. Or perhaps it was just his imagination, to reassure himself that the nightmare had indeed been a falsehood.

He had dreamed he was back at the Manaforges in Netherstorm. Their constant whine and pounding as the great machinery destroyed the land seemed to echo in his ears even now… he winced. And he'd dreamed that he was there as he was now… a Scryer… and that they had known. All of them had known. And he was cornered and begging his fellow Sin'dorei that what was happening here was wrong, to let him go, anything. And he saw their faces, impassive, emotionless, and tainted with the first gleams of madness that led to the descent into the Wretched as they cornered him, weaponless, defenseless. He'd woken when they had killed him.

The blood elf took a deep breath and wiped the sweat off his brow. That wasn't how it happened. Not at all. He'd been terrified when he and his company turned their backs on their Prince, yes, but that wasn't how it happened. It was just his mind worrying about what would come before this was all over… and worrying about how far from his beloved Silvermoon he was in this strange place where he was barely tolerated. By the Sunwell. Silvermoon. He could never return.

Daramus stood. He needed some fresh air. It hit his lungs hard when he stepped out of the tent. The Scryer's Tier was ornate and illuminated even at night, a testament to his people's power. While the pavilions they used for housing appeared small and rudimentary they were enchanted to provide the best shelter for the elements and so when he let the flap drop behind him he took a moment to consider if he should grab a cloak. The night was cold. Then he shook his head, feeling the sweat on the back of neck lingering under his long hair. He needed the cold. It would clear his head.

There were still some out and about. No one gave him a second glance, not even his fellow Scryers. If he wanted to take a late-night walk no one would stop him. For a moment he considered just staying on the Tier but quickly dismissed it. The presence of the Sin'dorei was what brought on the nightmare. He needed some privacy.

The Upper Tier of the city was almost empty. The few people that were still up only used it as a transit from one location to another, quickly making use of the portals in the main chamber or venturing into the Lower City. Daramus wouldn't dare head there tonight, not unarmed as he was and dressed only in his breeches and a linen shirt. For all the Aldor claimed they didn't do a very good job policing the strays that littered the bottom of the city. Blessings of the Naaru indeed.

Eventually Daramus stopped walking and climbed up on the ledge that overlooked the lower city. He could see the forests of Terrokar beyond and below him were the glow of campfires the refugees huddled around. What would it be like, to be staying in that miserable place because there was nowhere else to go to? But then again, did they have nightmares like he did? Did they dream every night that something had gone wrong, that he was discovered as traitor to his Prince and executed in all manners… from a slow, lingering death to quick, uncaring end? He wasn't sure who had it worse off.

"You are up late."

The voice had an accent that caused the blood elf to stiffen. He turned and saw a female draenai standing behind him, her robes simple and her blue orbs of eyes unreadable. For a moment he just stared at her and then turned his gaze back towards the forest beyond. Sun-cursed Aldor.

"Has the Naaru enforced a curfew now?" he asked curtly.

She only chuckled in return and walked over, staring off at the forest as well. Daramus was tempted to tell her to just go away, leave him to his thoughts, but she had a strangely thoughtful expression on her face that caused him to hesitate.

"I couldn't sleep either," she finally said, "It is hard to give blessings to those you know will go and die for the Light and you may never see to bless again."

Daramus hesitated. 

"Then you are a priestess."

"Yes. I tend to the sacred temple but as I am still low in the hierarchy I tend to the warriors, the soldiers of the Aldor and bless them before they go out into battle. Many do not return."

The elf twisted his hands together. He did not want to be listening to this. He wanted to be left alone this night, recover from his nightmare, and go back to bed. And the next night, another nightmare would be waiting for him.

"So you cannot sleep because you dream of them dying for the name of what you bless them in."

No answer. Daramus sighed heavily and glanced back down into the Lower City, seeing only the pinpoints of light from the campfires now as he let his vision go unfocused.

"I dream I die at the hands of my own kin, my own Scryer tabard stained red with blood before I wake."

He laughed and stood, standing on the ledge with his hands clasped behind him. The wind gently caressed his hair and for a moment there was silence between the two.

"I wonder…" he murmured, almost to himself, "If I were to be chosen to go out there… to Netherstorm as a spy… if I would have the courage…"

"The Light gives us-"

"Forget that!"

He spun on his heel and for a moment she gasped, as if expecting him to fall and he stared down at her, his green eyes wild and their gazes locked.

"You get to stay here safe in Shattrah and all you have to worry about is whether a warrior – one who chooses to go – will return or not! How hard is that?"

"Harder than you think!"

"Then try turning your back on your people! Try that, for a change. By the Sunwell, you Aldor make me sick." He took a deep breath, all that frustration boiling over. Taking refuge in a city that barely tolerated him. Dreaming every night of dying for doing so. "You have… everything. This is… your city. And even though it was destroyed you are reclaiming what was lost. We… are still losing it. Watching it all fall away around us… our own leader…"

And Daramus sat down again, sinking his head into his hands.

"You wonder why we hate you? Because we have no home anymore. Go back to your temple, priestess, at least you're welcome."

There was a terrible silence again and then the draenai shifted. He could hear the click of her hooves and then fingers touched his brow. He jerked back but there was nowhere to go but a fall into the Lower City behind him. His heart pounded, like it had in his nightmare when he'd been trapped and destroyed. For a moment the draenai closed her eyes and then light appeared above her forehead, a rune hovering there for a moment and she spoke, gently, to him and something else.

"Light bless you, blood elf, and may you find peace."

Then she turned and walked away. Daramus sat there, breathing hard, feeling warmth suffuse his body and he quivered, hating it. Did she think this would solve anything? A blessing would fix everything that had gone wrong? But…

At least she tried. He exhaled. That was a lot more than any of the Aldor had ever done before. A whole lot more. Shaking, Daramus covered his face so that none passing could see the few tears that silently slid down his cheeks. No one would bother him. He was not wearing his tabard. He could be any other blood elf that passed through this city. He could find peace, for a little while, this night.

In the morning, things would be back to as they were. He'd be wrapped up in a struggle watching things deteriorate, watching the one they'd hoped would save their race break them down, bit by bit. Perhaps that was what it took. Maybe once it was all destroyed, once Silvermoon and everyone else knew what it was Kael'thas had become, maybe then they could start over. Rebuild. It was a grim hope but it was all that he really had.

He stood and started the walk back to the Tier. As he did he passed a patrol of two Aldor. The ones supposedly in charge of protecting the peace of the city. As they passed he eyed him and was returned with the usual, typical, suspicious glances in return. 

What would they think if they knew one of their own priestesses of the Light had blessed him moments before? Daramus ducked his head so that his hair would hide his wry smile. It wouldn't change anything. Not for a long time, at least. But maybe, perhaps someday, things would get better. Maybe then he'd stop having nightmares and dream of Silvermoon as it should be. Perhaps those dreams would be real. Perhaps.


End file.
